"I already feel like an idiot most of the time anyway."

Your mind is a pretty effective time machine, provided you have a good memory and at least a little bit of an imagination. The only drawback is that you can't really change anything unless you can somehow change your own memories AND the memories of all the people who were involved in whatever you're changing. So you can see how that might be difficult. It's one thing to impose your will on your own self, but on other people? Unless you have an Inception-machine or know Joseph Gordon-Levitt, you can just forget it.

But you can pretend things changed. You can even change your own memories enough, just for yourself, that it helps you in the future. Some may call this denial, but I just call it playing the system. I find myself so often hung up on things that have happened to me, things that I no longer have any control over, if I ever did, things that I cannot change now, no matter how hard I wish for it, and yet I dwell on them, well, forever. The whole making mistakes and learning from them has always been hard for me. Like most people, I'd rather not make mistakes, I'd rather just do things perfectly the first time, otherwise aren't I wasting time?

No. Duh, NO. Everyone knows it’s important to make mistakes, because at least you're trying, but it's hard to really take that to heart, to do something about it. Much easier, really, to stay still, doing the things you know how to do and not having to worry about messing up or looking foolish.

I'm not sure why this is something I ever worry about. I try so hard NOT to make a fool of myself and it's usually all for nothing. I end up looking like an idiot at some point during the day, it's just going to happen. That’s just who I am. I'M AN IDIOT. And I'm not trying to demean myself or anything, I like being an idiot. It's much more fun than being serious all the time. And yet, it bothers me sometimes that people don’t seem to take me all that seriously.

This is mostly my fault, I’m pretty sure. I'm more likely to joke and make sarcastic comments and belittle myself than I am to actually offer helpful advice or suggestions. I’m not sure why I do that. Chandler Bing my way through life. (Oh, right, defense mechanism. Duh. Plus, Chandler is the funniest Friend. Who doesn't want to be the funniest?)

I wish I spent less time worrying about the past, I really do, if only because it does no good. Sure, it's helpful to remember your mistakes (if you've been brave enough to make any), but there comes a point when you have to stop dwelling and start thinking about what you're going to do next. Hopefully, it doesn't involve sitting and moping and getting all verklempt while you listen to The National, unless you're me and today is today*. No. Stop that. Get up, take a walk, sit down, read a book, write some nonsense, just do SOMETHING.

Your mind is a time machine after all, bigger on the inside, so just imagine what it can do. 

*I actually wrote this like a month ago, so I feel the need to point out that today I am not moping and listening to The National, today I am high on cold medicine and enjoying Spotify 90s radio.

On sleep, or lack thereof

It's amazing what a difference a good night's sleep makes. I mean, not really. It's not amazing at all. It's actually pretty obvious. Everyone knows sleep is good. Duh. Long-time readers of this blog (or even not-so-long-time readers) might remember that I often have trouble sleeping, sometimes going through long stretches of time without getting a good night's sleep, which sucks and also double sucks because when I don't sleep, it's all I want to talk about and THAT IS SUPER BORING. But boring enough to put me to sleep? No.

Sometimes my sleep trouble is Max's fault, for sneaking onto our bed while we're asleep and then trying to curl up on my pillow. Sometimes it's Phoebe's fault, because it seems like 3am is her favorite vomiting time and, you guys, vomiting time is LOUD. Sometimes it's Joe's fault (IT SO IS) for snoring or moving too much or accidentally elbowing me in the head or, really, for just being asleep when I'm not asleep HOW RUDE NO FAIR.

But most of the time, it's no one's fault but my own because I can't turn my brain off. I can't make myself relax because you know what the least relaxing thing in the world is? Trying to tell yourself to relax. Especially if you're already worried that you're not going to get enough sleep. It's easy to tell yourself in the bright light of day that all you need to do is close your eyes, focus on your breathing, and you'll relax, but when it's nighttime and you're stressed about work the next day and you're brain-yelling at yourself to RELAX BREATHE IN COUNT TO FOUR BREATHE OUT COUNT TO FOUR RELAX RELAX RELAX...you're never going to fall asleep. SORRY BUT YOU'RE NOT.



Sunday was one of those nights for me. I had no good reason to not be able to fall asleep. If I fell asleep at all, I woke up an hour later, hoping that I could just fall right back to sleep but NO. I finally fell into a nice sleep around 5:30, only to wake up an hour later with the alarm, wanting to cry and sink back into bed instead of facing the day.

What do you guys do if you can't sleep? Do you get up and do stuff? Or, like me, do you just lie there, doing sad math until your alarm goes off? You know, like this: "OK, if I fall to sleep now, I can still get five hours of sleep...I can live on that. It's only one day, and then I can come straight home after work and take a nap...oh, shit...OK, if I fall to sleep NOW, I can get four hours of sleep. People live on that all the time. It's fine. Doctors don't sleep for like 48 hours straight and they operate on people so I can definitely sit at a desk all day on four hours of sleep. It's fine. OH SHIT THREE HOURS OF SLEEP I MIGHT AS WELL JUST GIVE UP AND FREAK OUT FOR THE REST OF THE NIGHT."

And so on.

There's got to be a better way to use this sleepless time. Should I get up and do something productive? Try to read a book? Reading in bed always makes me sleepy. Should I just give up and get up at 3am to work out or something? Or will that just lead to me falling asleep on the way to work? HELP ME, INTERNET, YOU'RE MY ONLY HOPE. Because this was me when I got home from work yesterday:



and that is unacceptable.

me and my brain are like peas and carrots

One of the best parts about our new house is that it's way closer to work for me, which means I don't have to get up as early. I used to get up way before Joe and I'd be dressed and ready to go most days before he was out of bed. Now, he gets in the shower around the time I'm drying my hair. This is great, mostly because neither of us really minds sharing the bathroom (unless I leave the cord to my flatiron lying all over the floor, which used to happen all the time and I'd hear a mighty yell whenever Joe would step on it...oops), but also because we can do ridiculous things like sing Backstreet Boys songs together or, like this morning, the Annie Edison Holiday Tradition Extravaganza, which I have not been able to get out of my head since last week.

One morning, I was, for whatever reason, quoting Forrest Gump, as ALL normal people do from time to time. I was quoting this line in particular: "Dear God, make me a bird, so I can fly far...far far away from here."

Then I started singing the Doctor Who theme song and explaining to Joe that a lot of people don't think that song has lyrics but it does and they are: Doctor Pooooooo doctor pooooo doctor poooo doctor poooooo...doctor poooooooooooooo. Or something. I don't know. I don't remember.

Anyway, Joe was all, "your brain is a strange place," and I was like, "what?" because what? And he was all, "how do you go from quoting little Jenny from Forrest Gump, praying in a field, to singing INSANE lyrics to Doctor Who?" and I was like, "I don't know, it's easy."

My brain is a place where The Doctor runs rampant with his new companion, Annie Edison, where Coach Taylor gives me daily pep talks, where Kelly Kapoor gives me fashion advice in the mean-girlest way possible. Movie and TV references zip around, smacking all up into each other until they spill out of my mouth FOR NO RAISIN. It's sort of like Community, if Community was terrible and made no sense. At any given moment, my brain sounds like this:

Why do people put those giant inflatable decorations in their yards? I hate them. Especially Frosty the Snowman. I really hate Frosty the Snowman. His stupid face and his stupid nose and his stupid stupid hat. If I were one of those kids, I'd set that hat on fire so he'd melt and never, ever come back. He is THE WORST. But I guess his hat IS pretty cool so maybe I wouldn't set it on fire, I'd just steal it and set one that LOOKS like it on fire so Frosty is dead and melts in the spring but I'll still have his magic hat. I don't know what I'd use it for but maybe it would bring other things to life, too? Like, I don't know, a stuffed elephant? But a little one because a big elephant wouldn't fit in our house. Except little elephants are mean, I think, because I read about it in The Lost World and it makes sense because little dogs are way meaner than big dogs because there is less room for evil in their bodies so the evil is more concentrated. It's science or something. Max is sort of little but he's not evil at all so maybe he's an outlier? Probably. Phoebe is little and she's pretty evil but that might just be a cat thing. I hope evil isn't transmitted by poop because Max keeps eating Phoebe's poops and I don't want him to be evil. I think evil is probably transmitted by, like, dark thoughts or blood or something. Not poop. Poop is supposed to be funny, not evil.

So yeeeeeah. Obviously, my brain is loud and confusing and doesn't make sense a lot of the time and almost always leads to poop talk, but, hey...whatever. It's home.

And the language these guys use. Rough! One of the guys told me to take my head out of my bottom and get back to work.

Today was a grand day. Just GRAND, I tell you. Actually, it really wasn't that bad, it's just that I think the worst feeling in the whole entire world is that feeling when you wake up the morning after a three day weekend and realize you have to go to work. Oh, and also you didn't sleep at all the night before because your body and brain refused to calm down and shut up (respectively) enough for you to actually, I don't know, relax and sleep for at least twenty minutes.

Before you start talking about AIDS babies or homeless people or whatever, I KNOW there are worse things in life than having to go back to work after a three day weekend. Like, for instance, not even HAVING a three day weekend. I know I'm being dramatic. But you can just shut up because MY LIFE IS HARD, OK?

I had to go to the hooha doctor today. Apparently if they even suspect that you may at one time in the future EVEN POSSIBLY develop hooha cancer, they want to see you every three months. It's nice that they care so much. Really. You wanna know what the sweetest words ever to be uttered at the gyno's office are? "You can disrobe now, but just on the bottom." Score! I got to leave my shirt on! I know those words don't sound that great, but when it's 15 degrees outside and 30 degrees in the exam room, you're happy that you get to leave whatever clothes you can on.

So there I was, sitting pantsless in the exam room with just a thin, paper blanket to cover my bare, goosebumbly legs. And I didn't want to get up and get a magazine from the counter, because every time I stood up, my bare ass was hanging out in the COLD COLD AIR and that? Was as unpleasant as it sounds. Perhaps moreso if you were standing behind me.

I sat there forever. At least 25 minutes. Maybe even 26. You don't know, you weren't there. Anyway, I was so bored and there was a map of the United States that was color coded to show you where the fattest states are. After I realized that I could barely recognize any of the states and am INCREDIBLY bad at geography, I tried to remember the 50 Nifty United States song. I remembered most of it, including listing all the states in alphabetical order, but I always get mixed up right after Ohio. Cause you're all, "Ohiiiiiiiiiii-ooooooo," which feels like the climax, but it's not. It sort of looks like a climax typed like that, BUT IT'S NOT, I said. Geez, calm down.

Where was I? Who knows? I sure don't. Anyway, after I sang the song a few times, I remembered that Heidi said the last time SHE went to the doctor, there was a Dr. Seuss book in the exam room. So I stood up, still humming the state song, and rummaged around the magazines with one hand while I held the paper blanket skirt shut behind me with my other hand. You know, in case the doctor walked in at that moment, I really didn't want to moon the hallway and its occupants. Although, it would serve them right. That room was ice cold AND devoid of Dr. Seuss books.

The doctor finally came in and seemed really frazzled. She said she was running late and I was all, "no shit, I realized that after you left me here half naked for half an hour." And then she totally rushed through the exam. No drinks, no dinner, NO JOKE. She was just in and out. So to speak.

If you really wanted to screw me up, you should've gotten to me earlier.

This morning I spent . . . um, way too long trying to get 94.9 (THE SOUND) on the radio in my office. I WOULD just listen to it online, but I can't because my company blocks anything fun (like, say, if you go to Youtube and search for "unicorn planet" . . . trust me). The reason I wanted, nay, NEEDED, to listen to 94.9 is because they're playing Perfect 10's all day. Which basically means people submit their 10 favorite songs and then they play them. That was pretty self-explanatory, I guess. Please don't think I think you're all so stupid that you don't know what a Perfect 10 is BECAUSE I DON'T.

The reason I love when they play Perfect 10's is because every so often, someone else's Perfect 10 will so closely resemble my own (you know, should I ever actually sit down and compile one) that I just know if we met we'd be BFF. I know that's probably not true, I just like to say BFF. This one time? I was in the car listening to some guy's Perfect 10 and every time a new song came on I would say, "HEY! I love this song!" especially when he played "Blister in the Sun" because, um, I love that song. And I thought to myself, "Jennie (for that is my name) . . . if he plays Death Cab for Cutie or something by The Shins, I believe he might be your soulmate," and I almost called the radio station to try and talk them into giving me the guy's phone number when the next song that came on was this one.

I love listening to Perfect 10's because it's like listening to someone's favorite mix-tape. I love mix-tapes. Although now I believe they are called "iPods." Whatever. Also, it makes me think of High Fidelity, a movie I absolutely hated when I first saw it (I was all of . . . I don't know, 18?) but when I watched it (and read it) again recently I was all "18-year-old Jennie was stupid," which . . . duh. At the end of the movie, Rob makes a mix-tape for Laura, something no one has ever done for me. If some guy ever made me a mix-tape even half as perfect as my Perfect 10, then I might be tempted to have his babies. Probably not, though. Probably I'd be so freaked out that someone knew me so well they could make something even remotely close to my Perfect 10, I'd never talk to him again. Because I'm a tiny bit fucked up. Maybe more than a tiny bit. I once told a guy that I think everyone is at least a tiny bit fucked up, and it wasn't until he started to disagree with me that I realized I actually believed what I'd said. Point proven, as far as I'm concerned.

For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors and laugh at them in our turn?

You know what I do that grosses even ME out? I crack my back. And my neck. And my wrists and ankles and knuckles. When I say it grosses me out, I mean it makes me think, "OH MY GOD the human body should never, ever make that noise." It doesn't make me want to vomit or anything, but I can't vouch for the people around me who hear all the cracking of my bones. Sometimes after I crack my back, I'm surprised to find I have not paralyzed myself. True story.

Last night, I made myself go to the gym. I really did have to make myself. There I was, slouched on the couch watching my fourth episode of Friends, twirling my hair, with my mouth hanging open in an oh-so-intelligent fashion, having the following conversation with myself:

"Go to the gym. No. Go. I don't want to! Go. But this is a really funny episode! So go after this episode. But the next one is the one with the nap partners! I don't care. This is unfair. I know. You don't care about me. I DO care about you, that is why I want you to go to the gym. Whatever. JENNIFER LYNN YOU GET OFF YOUR LAZY ASS RIGHT NOW AND GO TO THE GYM."

That is essentially exactly the way it happened. Then I did the elliptical for so long that I thought my legs were going to fall off. You know that part in Bridget Jones's Diary (the movie) where she's riding the exercise bike and she falls over when she gets off? That's what I felt like. I didn't fall over, though. Good story, right? Want me to tell it again? Because I can and will.

Wanna hear something weird? Too bad. I have to eat my lunch in the same order every day. Granted, this is only if I'm EATING the same thing every day but I usually do. You may assume from my exciting adventures on this blog that my life is a crazy whirligig of fun, but it's not. It's very boring. That's entirely not true. Interesting stuff happens to me all the time. It's just that I am boring. Usually for lunch I have carrot sticks, a turkey sandwich, pretzels, and a snack pack. And that is the order in which I have to eat it, too. I don't know why. Also, I have to cut my sandwich is unequal halves so I know which one to eat first. Because I like to eat the smaller one first. Again, I don't know why. Oh, and another thing? (God, Jennie, stop talking) When I'm eating pretzels or chips or something, I have to eat the broken ones first. I mean, I don't HAVE to. It's not like if I accidentally eat a non-broken one before all the broken ones are gone I have to throw it all up and start over again. But I PREFER to eat the broken ones first. This is all leading me to believe that I am slowly turning into my father, who has to make his sandwiches in a specific order and if he doesn't he sits there and says, "Oh no, I put the cheese in the wrong place. This sandwich is ruined." True story.

Let's see, what else, since I'm letting all my crazy hang out today. A little while ago I was trying to calculate how much of my life I have devoted to Pride & Prejudice. There's the book, which I've read at least five times. The six-hour miniseries, which I'm going to estimate I've seen at least ten times, probably more but who can keep track of that sort of thing? The new movie I've seen about six times, I think? Also, I have seen Bridget Jones's Diary approximately 87.5 times and since that is BASED on Pride & Prejudice, I think it counts. Better throw the book version on the pile, too, because I've read that, um, a lot of times. Then there's this book, which I've read twice. Then there was that time I devoted quite a few hours to developing my theory that all men can be placed into one of three categories: Mr. Darcys, Mr. Collinses, and Mr. Wickams. I think that should be updated, though, because how could I have left out Mr. Bingley and Mr. Bennet? Although, you could argue that Mr. Bingley is a Mr. Darcy, at least to Jane, and OH MY GOD here it goes again. Anyway. There's also all that time I've spent TALKING about Pride & Prejudice. Like when Amy and I got really drunk freshman year and there was a fire drill and we had to go sit outside until they let us back in? But the head RA or whatever he was called was standing by the elevator and we were scared we'd get in trouble, so instead of, I don't know, taking the stairs (although that would have been a loooong walk up those 10 flights of stairs), we veered into the bathroom where we spent at least an hour sitting on the counter talking about why Mr. Darcy was the perfect man.

Oh, and we can't forget the blogging about it. Or the writing of papers about it (I can't find a link for that, but I know I wrote at least two papers in college). Or the designing of t-shirts inspired by it. And yet, I can still never remember if it's spelled "Bennet" or "Bennett." I think I need professional help, but it's so expensive. I'm going to stop now. OK, bye!

Conversations Extravaganza; or, Why My Mother is Grosser Than Yours

Last night, I went over to Nancy's to make a penis cake. It wasn't very hard (heh) because all we had to do was mix up all the ingredients and pour it in the mold, but I felt confident that if anyone could mess up cake from a box, I could. I didn't, though. So there. On the way home, I talked to my mom and NOW I BRING YOU a Conversation with My Mother:

Me: Hi, Mom.
Mom: Hey, what are you doing?
Me: Driving.
Mom: Oh, where are you going?
Me: I was at Nancy's.
Mom: Doing what?
Me: Making a penis cake.
Mom: Okaaaay.
Me: It's for Erin's bachelorette party this weekend.
Mom: Oh, I see. You just made the penis?
Me: Um, yes?
Mom: . . .
Me: Why?
Mom: Oh, no reason, I was just going to say something very crass.
Me: Well, thank you for keeping it to yourself.
Mom: It was going to be something about testicles.
Me: Mom! And anyway, the penis had balls attached.
Mom: Oh, OK.
Me: Also, we made pubic hair.
Mom: OK, Jennie, I didn't need to know that.
Me: It's just coconut shavings and food coloring.
Mom: You could have been like the guys from Jackass and used real pubic hair.
Me: OH MY GOD.

Later, I told Heidi about it and we laughed and laughed because is there anything funnier than moms saying "pubic hair?" I don't think so.

Heidi: I can't believe your mom said that.
Me: I know. Although, now I know where I get it from.
Heidi: That's true.
Me: I always thought it was from my dad, but it turns out it's my mom.
Heidi: Who knew?
Me: Or maybe it's from both of them.
Heidi: That would explain a lot.
Me: Man, I'm screwed.

When I got home from making the penis cake, I changed and put my gym clothes on. I had my mp3 player, membership card, and keys in my hand and then decided I didn't want to go. I took my shoes and socks off and sat down at the computer and then had this crazy mess of thoughts: You should go to the gym. Just go. You're already wearing your gym clothes. JUST GO. But if you go, you won't be home until almost 10 and you might miss some of Lost. Who cares, you're TiVoing it. Yeah, but you still have to fold some laundry and iron. Or you could not wear that shirt you were planning on wearing and you wouldn't have to iron. But you'd still have to fold laundry. Just go. Go. You went to all that trouble of putting a sports bra on, seriously just go. Plus, if you don't go, Heidi is going to come home and ask what you did tonight and all you'll have to tell her is 'made a penis cake and sat around playing on the Internets' and then she'll make fun of you, do you want that? No. Get off your ass and go.

So, I went. And almost immediately regretted it because all the elliptical machines with the TVs attached were taken, so I had to go into the Cardio Cinema and the movie they were playing was Employee of the Month. Starring Dane Cook and Jessica Simpson. I don't know if you know how I feel about them but if I were stuck on a deserted island and had to decide which one to eat for survival or sacrifice to appease the Volcano Gods? I would volunteer to jump into the Volcano myself because I wouldn't want to spend the rest of my life with either one of them. Luckily, when I went in, it was toward the end of the movie so the credits took up a lot of the time I was in there. But could they have assembled any more annoying people to star in that movie? Dane Cook, Jessica Simpson, Dax Shepard, ANDY DICK, and that guy from Half-Baked who gets throw in jail. You know the one I mean? He was in Sorority Boys, too. Also There's Something About Mary, talking about seven being the key number and chipmunks on a branch. Oh man, why do I know this? I watch too much TV. Also, too many movies. I will HANDS DOWN KICK YOUR ASS at Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.

Anyway. Did I tell you the other night we broke our garbage disposal? Well, I say WE broke it but really it was all Heidi. Hee. Sorry, Heidi. This is the fourth kitchen appliance we have broken (it goes: stove, dishwasher, freezer, garbage disposal, and also my toilet). Heidi said when she called the apartment complex lady to tell her it was broken, the lady asked how we knew and when Heidi told her I had Googled "clogged garbage disposal" and Google said never, ever put celery in the garbage disposal, she laughed and laughed for the rest of the phone call. I don't know why. I thought everyone Googled everything and if you don't believe me I'll Google you RIGHT NOW I swear I will.

so give me your hand and let's jump out the window la la la la la

YOU GUYS! Today is it SUNNY and over FORTY DEGREES OUTSIDE! DO YOU SEE HOW EXCITED I AM?! CAPS LOCK! MEANS! EXCITED!

Seriously, do you know how great it is to walk outside and it's not so cold that you want to cry, but you're afraid to cry because the tears might freeze to your face and even though it'd be kind of awesome to peel long strings of ice-tears off of your face, you think it might also hurt and leave a weird mark so you'd rather not? Did anyone follow that? No? Me neither.

Does anyone else think this whole blogging thing is weird sometimes? Like, today, I spent most of the day at work thinking of Friends quotes to put in my Gmail status box because, um, that's what all other cool kids were doing and when I say cool kids, I mean People of the Internets. Do you guys really exist? I mean, really? I know some of you do, because I went to college with you or I've hung out with you or, hello, I live with you. Or I've seen pictures of you and I'm assuming my brain isn't sophisticated to make all of that up. Or you've introduced me to your friends so I'm assuming if your friends aren't imaginary than you aren't either. But the rest of you . . . are you really there or figments of my imagination? I hope you're real and not just in my head, but if you are, at least you're entertaining. Is anyone following this? No? Me neither.

I got off work early today so I came home, put on my pajamas and started doing laundry. Who else is jealous of my super-exciting life? Don't everyone put your hands up at once. Later I plan on making a salad and chicken for dinner unless I completely lose all motivation and make peanut butter and jelly. Which, ok, does sound really freaking good right now. OK, NOW who is jealous of my super-exciting life and DON'T LIE. You have no idea what kinds of super-exciting things I do all day long except, oh wait, yes you do because I tell you everything. Well, almost everything. Some things I only tell Heidi. Like on Monday? This happened:

Me: Heidi, can I tell you something really gross?
Heidi: Sure.
Me: No, I mean, it is really, really gross.
Heidi: OK.
Me: OK . . .

And then I told her the grossest thing ever* and she barely blinked. I'm not sure what that means. Does anyone know where I'm going with this? No? Me neither.

So I've been listening to the same song over and over for the past three days. I don't know why. When I really like a song I prefer to listen to it all day and all night and if I can't listen to it then I like to have it stuck in my head so I can hum it when other people aren't listening. I can't stop myself. It's a sickness. This is what happens:

Brain: OH MY GOD are you listening to this again?
Me: Yes.
Brain: WHY?
Me: I like it.
Brain: OK. But this is like the 30th time today.
Me: Don't exaggerate.
Brain: I'm not. Actually, I'm being generous. It's probably more like the 70th time today.
Me: Now you're exaggerating.
Brain: Maybe.
Me: OK, just one more time.
Brain: NO!
Me: One more!
Brain: No more, please for the love of the little baby Jesus!
Me: Please?
Brain: OK, it is kind of growing on me.
Me: Ha!

Does anyone care where I'm going with this? No? Me neither.

*Seriously, it was disgusting . . . but funny. I laughed, anyway.

Fate loves the fearless (even if you might get axe murdered)

Internets, you never fail to surprise me. I came home from Columbus on Sunday and noticed that I had a Gmail chat (seriously, look into it) message from Kat. You know Kat. Don't pretend you don't know Kat or I will cut you. Anyway, the message said her friend Ferdinand (aside from Kat's and my own, I have changed the names in the story to protect the innocent . . . or whatever) was going to be in Dayton for a couple days and would I like to get a drink with him. I then had the following conversation with my brain and don't even pretend you don't do the same when people aren't looking, only with your brain instead of mine because if you're having conversations with my brain, I'm sorry, but that is REALLY weird. Anyway:

Jennie: Well, Brain, what should I do?
Brain: I'm tired.
Jennie: I don't care.
Brain: Lemme alone.
Jennie: BRAIN, WAKE UP.
Brain: OK, OK.
Jennie: What should I do?
Brain: Just do it.
Jennie: Do you even know what I'm talking about?
Brain: No.
Jennie: Sigh.
Brain: OK, fine. Here are your options. Do it. Don't do it.
Jennie: Hmm, sounds simple enough.
Brain: If you do it, you might get axe murdered.
Jennie: I hardly think Kat's friend is an axe murderer.
Brain: Do you know Kat?
Jennie: Yes.
Brain: Have you ever met Kat?
Jennie: . . . no.
Brain: I rest my case.
Jennie: What case? That's a terrible case.
Brain: I know. OK, so you probably won't get axe murdered.
Jennie: Thank you.
Brain: But it could be awkward, which is almost as bad.
Jennie: True. But there will be drinks.
Brain: Wow, you're right. Do it.
Jennie: OK.

That is essentially exactly the way it happened. So, Monday night, after a handful of text messages, my friend Tori (not Spelling) and I went to meet Ferdinand and his friend Magellan. Please do not tell me how weird it sounds that I went and met a complete stranger who happens to be friends with someone I met through a blog, dear Internets. I've tried explaining it both out loud and in my head and it is never met with the response, "oh, that sounds like a perfectly logical and rational thing to do," but I DID IT ANYWAY. Because that's how I roll.

So, anyway, Tori and I went to meet them at Cadillac Jack's, which is where we went a few weeks ago when I pretended to be a stewardess. Again, because that's how I roll. And I was pleasantly surprised when things were not awkward, unless you count our waitress who didn't blink. She was either a robot or high and I'm leaning toward the former. In fact, I was pleasantly surprised again last night when coffee wasn't awkward either, unless you count the part where we got caught spying on security guards arresting some guy in Cold Stone Creamery. Like, what do you have to do to get arrested at a Cold Stone? Anyway, as it turns out, it's pretty stupid to drink coffee at 9 o'clock at night when you have to get up at 5:30 the next morning, but at least I wasn't the only one with insomnia.

And those, dear Internets, are the only details you get.